Your Beauty Grows Upon Me
by blogyourfeelings
Summary: Neither of them has much control over their fate, but they can decide what course their marriage will take. He wants her to want this. To want to explore, to discover, to love.
1. Chapter 1

Marriage was no dream of Sherlock's.

As a boy, the future he creates for himself includes no pretty, docile lady and children clinging at his feet. His wishes are not tinged with greed - for power or money - but of a thirst for knowledge. In a way, Sherlock learns that knowledge is power. Few men know the delicate art of chemistry, the important warnings of history, the veiled messages of poetry and literature. But he did. At least to a greater extent than most.

He understands people. Their ticks, their desires, their fears.

His mother does too. It was how she'd so easily drawn him to the path of her choosing, rather than his own.

He was marry Molly Hooper or face a life destitute of the knowledge he so craved. It was mostly his own doing. His own wretched foolishness to think he would not be as easily sucked in by narcotics as those with lower intelligence. Addiction did not care for who it took under its darkness - whether they be a poor beggar on the street or a rich fool such as Sherlock.

Cambridge had refused his re-entry after a long summer fighting to wean himself off drugs. It was devasting. His greatest wish ripped from him -after all his years of refusing any other existence than a life of learning. And of exploration. He hoped after university to head down to London, to use his skills and intelligence in the art of deduction however he could.

The only way his mother would secure this imagined future was a promise to marry once he had graduated. The Holmes family were well respected, and one trip to Cambridge by his brother or father, and a generous donation later, and he would be reinstated in time for the start of the semester.

He managed to bargain for one year. One year after the end of his studies to put to use his brilliant mind before it would be dulled by a life of domesticity.

The life of domesticity did not appear so bland when finally did meet his intended.

Men less observant than he would notice how delicately beautiful she was. Long, flowing cinnamon locks shimmered, her red dress enhancing the paleness of her skin in the bright living room of his family home. They would marry in less than month and Sherlock rued that he had refused the opportunity to get to know her beforehand when he was finally faced with her gentle but obvious beauty.

That feeling festered as he began to observe the woman that was to become his wife. She was entranced by books; rarely did he ever see her without her fingers clinging to dog-eared pages. Every afternoon, she would sit in the gardens, content with the company of the bees in the flowers and the chirping birds above her. Intelligence and curiosity shone in the depths of her dark eyes as she inhaled the world around her. He wondered often what she thought of as she stared off into the distance. Did she have her own unfulfilled dreams? Was she desperately unhappy at the thought of their union, as he had once been?

She was quiet, but not in a show of subordination. Rather she did not bow to endless need to chatter, only speaking when she felt it was necessary. They shared few words before the wedding because they knew an exchange of pleasantries would not improve their situation.

She was strong willed but never bratty. Her hand would bat her mother's fussing touches at her cheeks and hair, uncaring of her the woman's scowls.

She was kind. The Holmes family's aging housekeeper had dropped a tray of cutlery one afternoon, and Sherlock had arrived in the kitchen just in time to help aid Molly and Mrs Hudson to pick up the few remaining spoons from the floor. Molly had deflected Mrs Hudson thanks with a sweet smile, her eyes nervously darting up to Sherlock before scurrying off out into the gardens.

"You're a lucky man to be marrying such a lovely young lady, Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson had said, her affectionate for the girl plain as day, despite only recently having met her.

Lucky. In his life he'd never valued luck. Never thought it to exist. Now he could recognise that he was lucky - that of all the women in England - he was marrying Molly Hooper. He'd never admired kindness or sweetness, but he found all her qualities worthy of intrigue and further exploration.

Sweet fate found her peering up at him as if she knows some mystery he's never imagined, that makes her seem a woman ready to be a wife, despite the youthful sweetness of her face. It puts him wrong-footed, has him struggling not to stammer out his vows as he recites them in front of their joined families. It is only when he takes her hand and feels it tremble in his that he feels heartened. It is easy to forget that he's not the only one who weds a stranger, and who's life may not be the one they'd dream of as a carefree child.

The evening feels both as if it takes forever and as if it's over in a blink. Sherlock recalls sharing sparring words with his elder brother, fighting off his mother's over-exuberant glee at her youngest son finally being married. _Marriage will make a man of you, my boy_, she says, clasping his cheeks in her hands before smacking a kiss on his cheek.

The night is over before he knows it, a blur of dancing and wine. He is left alone, in his - in _their_\- bed, awaiting the arrival of his new wife. She slipped off after a call from her mother, quietly promising to meet him in their room promptly.

In only his shirt and cotton drawers, he sits on the mattress, and then stands to pace the length of the room, then sits again with his back to the door, unsure of how best to greet his new wife when she returns. He considers that perhaps it's best to stand – to be bold, as if there's nothing odd or unusual about this – when the door opens and she enters.

To his surprise, she has changed from her long white gown into a shift of the same colour, the laces loose in the valley of her breasts, the hem clinging to her calves. He feels a wave of heady desire crash over him and somewhere in his hazed mind he notes it's a good thing he has remained seated. As casually as he can, he shifts on the mattress and flips a corner of the sheets over his lap, though whether he does it for her sake or to spare himself from embarrassment, he's not entirely sure.

Without prompt, she moves on quick feet and climbs onto the bed. He turns to her, their eyes meeting briefly, and in her dark orbs Sherlock is glad to see no fear or apprehension, merely uncertainty. He would not like for her to be afraid of him, though he could hardly blame her for being wary of the unknown. Of the unexplored too, as both are inexperienced in what may face them in the beginning of their days as a married couple.

Long moments pass, so many that Molly began to fidget. With a start, Sherlock remembers that he's supposed to touch her now. He knows many men take advantage of their 'rights' to their wives bodies, and does not wish to be so brutish in his approach. It's only that he so wishes to look. Sherlock is not entirely unfamiliar with girls, he has crossed path with many different types of woman in his year as a detective in the capital, but none like Molly.

Everything about her is inspiring: the rosy colour of her lips, the smooth curve of her cheek, the inviting roundness of her hips and breasts beneath the thin shift. The shadowy wedge at the apex of her thighs. It makes his mouth go dry and he suddenly wishes he'd brought a bottle of fine wine to their bed to soothe his throat and his frayed nerves.

"Is it so much warmer here that your shifts can be so thin?" he asks distractedly as he tests the fabric laying over her narrow shoulders with the tips of his fingers, his voice sounding surprisingly rough to his own ears. It's a silly question, born of a mixture of anticipation and fear.

"It's special," she begins, and then blushes, ducking her head and peaking up at him from beneath her lashes in a manner so fetching that it leaves Sherlock feeling light-headed, as if he has guzzled down a bottle of wine. "My mother had it made for tonight. For our first night as man and wife," she babbles nervously, cheeks reddening further under the amber candle light.

"Special," he repeats softly, sliding his fingertips down the edge of the neckline, until he just begins to brush the swell of her breast against his knuckles.

"Is it not to your liking?" she asks with a glint in her eyes. Her humour is something he hopes discover in the weeks to come.

He huffs out something akin to a laugh. "Of course it is," he says. Everything about her is to his liking.

She grins at that, dimples pressing into her cheeks. He has not often seen her so free with her smiles - most upon arrival in Somerset have been closed off or forced - and to see her appear joyous makes his heart swell. The idea that she is his to touch, that she might wish to touch him… that perhaps they may be together out of desire rather duty. How could bedding a woman as lovely as Molly be a duty?

"Do you wish me to remove it?" she asks, her smile fading as she bites down her bottom lip.

He studies her for a moment - as he has done hundred of times with his fellow students at university, his clients, passers-by on the London streets - and finds himself with no solid conclusions. "Do you wish to?" he questions in return.

There is surprise in her face at his question. Sherlock wonders what her mother might have told her before she'd entered the room – that she must submit to him, perhaps, and please him. Molly was stubborn in her convictions and would be loyal to her duties. Would she refuse him if she was truly given a choice? It's something he'll have to remind himself of; he is not the only one who has been strong armed into this.

"I'm," she stammers, her hands fluttering. "I'm not sure," she admits.

"That's okay," he reassures. He may not feel confident of much lately, but he can rely on his ability to deduce. "Perhaps you would allow me to convince you," he says with a boyish grin and a teasing wink. Her answering laugh is high and swift, that puts him in mind of the birds she's so fond of watching. It spurs him on - if she'd gone frozen or started away from his suggestive words - he would have stopped. But once her chin dips in a nod, the desire to taste her lips overrides everything and he leans forward to touch his mouth gently to hers.

"They're as soft as they look," he marvels when he pulls away. She blushes again, and opens her mouth as if to speak, but he catches the words with his own mouth, inhaling them with her breath as he traces his tongue over hers. She is the first to pull away, her chest heaving, her eyes wide.

Fear sets in his belly. "Molly," he begins, his voice soft as not to frighten her.

"I'm sorry," she hastily interrupts. "That was lovely… I just… It is strange. I am your wife… and yet I do not know you."

He kisses her furrowed brow. She is right, of course, and it's partly their own faults for not being brave enough to do more than observe each other before today. "What do you wish to know?" he says playfully, guiding her up the bed so they lie side by side, heads resting on the pillows.

"So much. I've heard so much about you -"

Sherlock smiles ruefully. His past will always haunt him, even with a woman as bright as Molly by his side. He twirls a silky curl in his finger, staring at the rich and varying colours of the strands rather than face her with a shameful gaze. "Not good things, I suppose."

"Interesting things," she says with a wry smirk. The curve of her lips leaves him desperate to kiss her once more. "You're a detective?"

"Of sorts," is his vague response.

"Strange occupation for a man of your wealth," she observes.

"Convention isn't really my thing," he replies drily.

Molly laughs. It opens up into the sharing of stories. She tells him of her late father who encouraged her studies - especially in science and anatomy and medicine - and that her mother disapproved of a lady to have such interests. She admits her envy that Sherlock had been Cambridge and begs stories of what it was like there. And of London too, the grey wonderland that would become her home soon.

"I think you will like it there," he tells her. "It's full of mysteries to be solved," he jokes, his fingertips stroking her warm cheek.

Mollly cocks a brow at him. "And you like mysteries then, Mr Holmes?"

The glint in her eyes causes him to swallow. "Tremendously," he says in a low rumble.

This time, she ascends her head to meet their lips in slow, languid kiss. A small sound lodges in her throat and her head falls, tilting up to his lips in a way that stirs within him feelings of protective tenderness and painful desire in equal measure.

He doesn't remember laying her flat down to the mattress, but he must, and her hands reach to curl over his shoulders as his knee wedges between her thighs. He loses track of time; minutes could have passed, or an hour, he has no idea. It's not enough, no matter how long it's been. Her mouth tastes richer than any wine and sweeter than any dessert. He tries to keep still, but he can't help rocking into her, and all semblance of restraint leaves when she gasps and writhes in response, one of her legs hooking around the back of his knee. It's too much for his mind to process. The idea of kissing her for years to come is overwhelming, but imagining all the ways he can touch her is enough to destroy him in the most delicious way.

He doesn't hear her at first, as he is so focused on kissing her sharpness of her jaw. She has to repeat herself for the words to register.

"You have convinced me, Mr Holmes," she says again. Her hand is gripping the curls at the nape of his neck and she tugs gently, until he looks up at her.

He kisses her once more before heaving himself off her and helping her to sit up. He quickly removes his own shirt, tossing it away carelessly. Together, they work the hem out from beneath her hips and pull the shift over her head. Sherlock leans back to look at her, his desire a clenched fist to his gut.

Her skin bathed in the candle light is the most gorgeous goldeny peach. Her shift had hidden the nip of her waist, the intricate freckles painted across her pale stomach, the dusky pinkness of her nipples, and with it gone, Sherlock feels awash with desire. To know every inch of her - inside and out - and to worship her, please her, love her.

Molly's brow lowers as she became aware of Sherlock's gawking. Her chin dips low to her chest and her hands crept upwards to cover herself.

"Do I not please you?" she whispers, in a voice so small it causes a pang to his chest.

"No!" he blurts, and then shakes his head in irritation at himself. "I mean, yes. Of course you do. Very much so. You're lovely. I just… " he trails off, feeling more like a boy than the man he's supposed to be. He sighs, his heavy breath making the end of Molly's hair splay further across the pillows. "You must have expected a man with more experience than this. Perhaps I should be the one that does not please you?"

She stares up at him a long moment, searching his eyes for something. Then, slowly, her arms fall away, and she takes his large hand in hers. "You do not displease me, Sherlock," she says. His name on her lips is maddening. It's just his name, but he rather likes how it forms on her lips, how she draws it out, encapsulating her emotions in the way it is spoken, soft and warm and amiable.

Then, in a gesture far bolder than Sherlock ever expected, she takes his hand, setting his palm on the dip of her waist. "You can touch me," she encourages. "If you would like." He's torn between looking at her face – eyes wide and dark, white teeth sinking into her lower lip – and looking at the silken skin he touches as he spreads his fingers as wide as they'll go, his palm savouring the feel of not just the softness of her belly, but the sharp jut of her hipbone.

"I would liike to," he says, his voice sounding strange and rough. She has reduced him to an unsure boy, desperately and aching for knowledge - not of science or mathematics or politics - but of her. He has so much to learn, he's not sure a lifetime with her will be long enough.

He keeps his hand still for so long, Molly hips twitch upwards slightly. Could she want him to touch her as much as he wishes to do so? It seems unthinkable.

His hands wander of their own accord, freezing only at the sound his wife lets out at the first touch of his fingers between her legs. The noise is the sweetest music, lovelier than any violin composition he could create. He's never felt anything as good as her. Soft and slick and warm – nothing he'd ever imagined could compare. There's little skill in his touch, but it doesn't seem to matter to Molly. Her skin is flushed, her cheeks and the slope of her chest turning an arousing shade of pink. Her uneven breathing washes over his face when she turns her face towards his, her body straining towards his hand, urging him to press more firmly against her wetness.

"Oh," she exhales out.

Molly seems to hover over some precipice, yearning for something she can't quite grasp as he touches her with rapidly deteriorating control. Her hands fumble downwards, her nails scraping over the cotton of his drawers. A subtle signal.

Wiith some effort, he lifts himself off her, removing his fingers from where he covets to explore the most, tugging down his drawers over his legs gracelessly, his pale eyes never leaving hers. Especially as it's so violently exciting to watch her look at him. Tentatively, she reaches out and traces a finger down the center of his chest and feels the sparse hair that arrows down his belly. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock withstands the exquisite torture of her exploration. To further test his control, her fingers caress the tops of his thighs, her knuckles brushing his cock with the barest of pressure.

"Molly," he says, hovering over her on his forearms. "Are you still convinced?" The question is genuine – and verges on pleading – despite Sherlock's hardest attempt at a teasing tone. Neither of them has much control over their fate - but they can decide what course their marriage will take. He wants her to want this. To want to explore, to discover, to love. It shocks him how a woman he barely knows evokes such a ferocity of emotion in him.

A faint crease forms between her eyebrows as she looks at him, as if she senses the turmoil of his thoughts. Questions resurface in his mind, whirling and whipping. All the things he wishes to know about her so he can store them away in his mind to cherish. It strikes him then, as she had said before, how strange a situation this truly is. To be married - to be entered into such a holy union - and then to have to get acquainted afterward. Suddenly he thinks maybe he should stop this, that it would not be the world's end if he does not bed her tonight.

Molly soothes his panicked thoughts, her hand resting against his cheek, drawing him back. "Yes," she says as she smiles gently. There's no flicker of doubt in her dark eyes. "I want to." She draws her knees up alongside his hips, tilting her own against him, rubbing against his hard cock in a way that has him ready to weep. His patience slips from his already weakened grip as he falls forward upon her, his lips searching for her own as he struggles not to crush his full weight onto her.

"Are you sure?" he asks just once more.

"Yes. I'm as ready as I'll ever be," she says with a smile that displays a whole load of emotion. It's shy, but the tilt of her lips suggesting an element of teasing and - Sherlock hopes intensely -_ desire._

With no barriers left, he takes himself in hand to guide himself inside her, praying that if it is more desire than duty that ensures her permission. He gasps as her wet warmth envelopes him. Wet is good, he thinks desperately as he slides forward as slowly as he can manage. Certainly for him. He had heard plenty of lewd discussions in his line of work and knew a little about the mechanics of sex. With stunning clarity that he has never discovered before, he realizes now that he could never go back, now that he truly knows the pleasure of being with another. He could never again withhold this sort of bliss from himself and feels a fool again for ever turning to drugs.

He tries to make it good for her. When she inhales sharply and twitches beneath him, her expression scrunching in discomfort, he curses his own inexperience in this act.

"I'm sorry," he apologises between panted breaths. Sherlock tries to pull up onto his elbows and moans when that only buries him more deeply within her. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," she says with a shake of her head, but her hands on his waist betray a slight tremble.

"Molly – "

"Don't stop," she orders. Her fingers dig into the soft yielding flesh of his hips, pulling him closer. "Please, Sherlock."

His name sounds so lovely on her lips. He has to kiss them. And then her forehead, her eyes, her chin, and he began to move within her again, feeling guiltily at the way she winces when he thrusts deeper within her. It doesn't feel any less mind blowing for him, which is the worst part, and he hates that he enjoys the act while she does not. He hopes this will not be a theme of their marriage ahead; that he should relish in all the delights of her, and she should gain no pleasure in return.

It all too much for him, and he peaks too soon, but for Molly's part, he is sure it is probably not quickly enough. Her breasts are soft beneath his cheek when he half-collapses on her, his chest heaving as he recovers.

"I'm sorry," he says once his mouth can form words.

"It's all right," she says as sweeps sweaty curls from his forehead. "My mother warned me. There was some pleasure... before you..." she trails off, her tongue tied, and Sherlock grins at the shyness of his wife. "There will be other times."

God, his heart wants to burst. Lots of other times, he hopes. Thousands.

"As you said," she continues with a small, breathy laugh. He shifts his position to move their heads closer, only for her to drop hers to peck the salt-slicked skin of his collarbone. "Lots of mysteries to solve in London."

"Yes," he says, growing breathless at her tone. There would lots of exploration to be done, but they could do it together. He wondered if she would find his cases as thrilling as he did. A picture of his future forms in his mind; that she'd not only be his romantic partner, but perhaps his partner in crime solving too. They'd make quite a pair, he was sure.

"Good night, Sherlock," she sighs, laying her head back down on the pillow.

"Good night, Molly," he says, watching her eyes slid shut, a smile still present on her lips. He rests his head back against her chest, letting his own sight fade out to blackness. He savours the steady thrum of her heart as he tucks his arm around her waist to hold her to him tightly, scared she might disappear in the night.

It would not do well for him to let his greatest mystery slip out of his hands.


	2. Through all my essence steal

Molly has to stand on her toes to reach the trailing end of the scarf and tie it around the wooden post. Her breasts press against his side and her husband sucks in a quick breath, his body swaying towards her when she pulls away but he is unable to follow. Intrigued, she steps close again, lets the suddenly stiff peaks of her breasts brush his chest and then steps away, smiling when he strains towards her only to be brought up short by his bound wrists.

A spike of excitement floods her. Oh, this is most definitely another one of her husband's ingenious ideas.

"Are you comfortable?" she asks. The slight curve of his lips tells her that he is, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, but he tells her so anyway.

"Yes." There's a roughened edge to his voice that wasn't there before. She likes it. She wants to make it rougher.

When he'd come to her before - their wedding night and all the nights since - she'd only received and accepted his attentions, followed his lead. Now that she must be more than passive, deeper fears surface. Doubt was beginning to overcome the initial thrill of the idea.

She's still not sure what to do when she draws away from him. Given no limitations, she finds it difficult to know where to start. As a woman, she has been advised to submit, not to dominate. Sherlock says nothing, makes no move to hasten or hurry her. Even though they have not been together in more than a week, and he must be craving the release her body can give him. But he just watches her, his face soft and open and true. His hair falls in disobedient curls over his forehead and into his eyes. With tentative fingers, she brushes it away, skimming over the line of his brow. She threads her fingers through his curls, fascinated as they resist her efforts to tame and smooth.

"Your hair is lovely," she muses, and he leans into her touch like a cat, his eyes half-closed in lazy pleasure.

"Thank you," he says in a show of uncharacteristic politeness. Briefly, she wonders if he senses her nerves and is trying to soothe her.

When her fingers brush the shell of his ear, he makes a soft sound and leans into her touch. Her other hand has settled on his bare chest and she can feel the thrum of his heart beneath her palm, it's steady beat calming her.

His skin is rougher than his hair when she shifts her hand to ghost over his face. It's more textured to her touch. Scars shine silvery white on his pale skin. She skims each one, feeling a pang in her heart at the pain they must have caused him. His brows are dark and coarse, arching across his forehead, and beneath them his eyelashes lay thick and long. Softly, she trails her fingertips over his brows, along the crescent of his eyelashes, rubbing gently at the creases bracketing his eyes, following the path of his nose, the strong regal slope, then down to skim the lips that part at her touch. They're dry and soft, a bit chapped, and she runs her thumb across them, gasping when he closes his lips around it and sucks in a hot, wet pull that she feels between her thighs.

"Sherlock," she admonishes. She's supposed to be in control, the one to taunt and tease him, not the other way around.

His skin is warm, golden from the fire, tempting her fingers to explore further. It feels even softer than it looks, even ridged with scars as it is. She traces the spidery lines, reading them with her fingertips, all the fights and skirmishes he must have gotten himself into. The history of his life without her. She hates them and she loves them in equal measure.

Then, she moves, and the brush of her fingers over his nipple produces a sharp intake of breath, so she returns and repeats it, looking up to see his face as she does it. His mouth hangs open as he sucks air between his teeth, his eyes hot and she cannot repress a grin of triumph at his reaction.

Smiling, she walks her fingertips down the ladder of his ribs, slotting her fingers in the shallow grooves between them. The hair on his chest is sparse, scattered only lightly under his collarbones and chest, disappearing entirely before growing again beneath his navel, coarse and as dark as the hair on his head.

His body twitches when she caresses the hair arrowing down his belly, one fingertip dipping into his navel. She can feel him quivering under her hand, the muscles jumping and quaking in anticaption. A curious feeling of power fills her that the barest touch from her would have him affected so. When she lifts her hand, his hips follow her, straining towards her. To assuage him, she stretches up and he lowers his head to meet her, his kiss eager and a little desperate.

Summoning the strength to break the kiss is difficult. The longing on his face as he leans against the tension of the scarf to get closer to her when she steps away makes up for it.

It's something she probably shouldn't take such pride in, but she gets unmistakable delight from teasing him, stepping close, allowing him her mouth, only to pull back again, just out of his reach. But he makes such delicious sounds, rumbling growls like losing her kiss truly pains him followed by urgent, appreciative moans when she returns to him. His skin heats under her hands, growing warmer with each touch, the muscles alongside his spine rippling when she spreads her fingers wide and pulls him to her. It pleases her so to see her publicly stoic husband unravel before her.

"You're enjoying this," he observes, groaning when she withdraws again.

She smiles shyly.

"My wife and my tormentor," he says softly. There is a lovely warmth to his voice, an affection that she had once thought would never exist between them.

She's pressed against him again as he finishes the words, kissing him deeply, hard enough to merge herself with him. She hooks her fingers around his neck to give herself over to the kiss. His mouth is hot, his tongue soft and insistent before he draws her own into his mouth and sucks.

Her hands refuse to stay still; skimming all over him, her fingers discovering the swell of muscle and the juts of bone. She dips her fingertips low beneath his waist, marveling in the catch of his breath, the quiver of his stomach against her knuckles. She'd never thought to explore a man in such a way before; her imagination had begun and ended in dreamy kisses, and before her wedding night, the thought of more caused a spike of fear in her belly. But with Sherlock she finds the boundaries of her imagination limiting, now that she knows the wonder of sharing her nights with him.

"Molly," he groans, sounding pained, when she curves her hand over his thighs, and feels the brush of his hardness against her knuckles. He surges forward, and in a show of impatience, increases the contact briefly before regaining himself and backing away.

In reward, she takes him in her hand. Tentatively, gently, she explores him with her hand, watching the pinch of tension and flurry of pleasure on his face. When she rubs her thumb in just a certain way, it wrenches moan from him, a sound which appears to come from deep within his gut. It startles her and causes her to loosen her grip. Sherlock is never normally so vocal, he kept himself restrained to soft sighs and breathy murmurs in all their previous encounters. It arouses her even further.

In a throaty whisper, she demands, "Tell me what you would do if I untied you."

He blinks up at her. "I would take off your shift," he says, watching her with heavy-lidded eyes, his breathing harsh enough to stir her hair. "I would touch you."

"Where?" she prompts as her fingers still circle around his cock.

"Everywhere," he responds gruffly.

His words make her feel bold, unashamed of her want. She squeezes her hand lightly around his cock, twists it as she moves, and she's rewarded with a primal sound.

"Do you think of touching me often?" she asks, her lust making her brave. She returns her thumb to the spot that evoked a reaction from him before and is not disappointed by the similar groan that passes between his lips.

"Yes," he hisses. "When I'm with you, when I'm on cases. All the time."

She lets out a soft moan herself at his words, followed by another evoked by the movement of his thigh harder against her soft, wet centre. Unable to help herself, she moves a hand under her shift to drift over her puckered nipples, needing relief.

The sight of her appears to reduce Sherlock's control to ash. "Molly," he begs hoarsely, "please."

Slowly, she withdraws her hands and straightens her back.

"What do you want?" she asks as she fingers the front of her shift. A quick shrug and the garment slid slightly off her shoulders. "Would you like me to take this off?"

He nods.

Kneeling up, she draws the cotton shift over her head and lets it fall to the floor. "Is that all?"

"No."

"What else do you want?" she asks again as she rises up his body and places her hands beside his head. As she lowers her body on to his — chest to chest, her centre grazing just right above his hardness.

His eyes are wide and filled with longing. "You. No one else; nothing else," he whispers in return.

She could not deny his plea. Her fingers fumble as she seeks him, guides him inside her. It is not the first time, but still she has to shift and adjust, her body still growing use to the feel of him inside her. Sherlock bites his lip, his whole body quivering with the effort to hold himself still and allow her time. The times they'd coupled before, he had lain over her, and that leaves her unsure now, knowing nothing of what she might do in such a position. Steeling herself to discover this on her own, she begins to move, her hands braced on his belly so she can feel it jerk and quake with her movements. The times they'd done this before hadn't been unpleasant in the act of it - no, everytime he'd done everything he could to make their couplings equally enjoyable for them both - but nothing had felt like this.

She began to move - up and then slowly down - spurred on by his moans and muttered half-statements of encouragement.

Sherlock is beautiful in his arousal: eyes-half shut, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly opened as he breathed heavily. She rolls her hips as she grinds down on him, eliciting a gasp and a breathless, "Yes, just like that."

"Tell me…" she starts, but she need not finish the words.

He's panting, looking at her with hot, worshipful eyes. "I would touch you and taste you and make you feel good. Make you peak," he says through gritted teeth. "Touch yourself. Please, Molly, let me see you do it."

She would have hesitated once to do such a thing, but that hesitation no longer exists; no such feeling could exist here with him like this. She feels free. She dips her fingers low, her knuckles bumping his stomach, and tentatively touches herself with inexpert fingers, finding the spot that felt good when it had rubbed against his thigh.

"Yes," he encourages, "yes, that's it. Good. You feel so good, so perfect."

He's babbling now, an endless torrent of endearments; he calls her darling, lovely, and he chants her name as if it's a sacred vow. It seems the more vulgar her actions, the sweeter his words, and she would have laughed if the words didn't pierce into her heart and burrow deep within her.

It takes only moments, his words hastening her release along, stoking the fire that builds in her until it blooms out, leaving her to shake and tighten around him, pulling at him greedily. She collapses against his chest, tucks her face to the side of his neck with her lips at his throat. She shivers and quakes and feels more whole with him a part of her - with them as one - than she has in a very long time.

She leans forward to suck a mark at the base of his neck, continuing to lazily sink up and down. Then she bites down on his reddened flesh and he stiffens, arching up into her with a hoarse cry. She leans back on his thighs to ride his release out. His arms jerk against the scarf but he remains tethered as he recovers, panting wilding as his eyes stay shut.

She peeks up at his face before swirling her tongue to soothe away the mark of her teeth, and he huffs out a laugh, looking at her in amazement.

"When I suggested this, I had thought we'd be in different positions, but I rather liked it," he says breathlessly. "Perhaps you should tie me up more often."

"Perhaps," she says lightly, lifting off him reluctantly.

This intensity can only last so long, she thinks. His eagerness for her is born only of his inexperience in the pleasures of flesh. He'd experience a similar but different pleasure with drugs. His most permanent love is crime solving and she suspects that will always be his route to happiness. She can only hope she can help him, be a source of calm and a safe haven for him whenever he needs her.

_Marriages are built,_ her mother had told her once.

They have something; a passion, a romantic connection she cannot deny, but she fears it may fade once he experiences the reality of marriage.

She unties the bindings at his hands, loosening the restraints that kept him powerless to her, handing him back whatever control she'd had over him. He barely moves apart from to rest his hands either sides of her hips, tugging her downwards to lie next to him. She curls her body up, still aching and pulsing. His heart beats like thunder under the fist that's curled over his chest.

She has many questions on her mind, but chooses her safest bet to keep him with her for just a while longer. In her arms, his eyes gazing at her as though she is the most interesting conundrum he has ever come across, his beauty on display only for her eyes to view.

"How was your case then?"

"Good. Yes, caught the thief, so good."

"Good."

Silence fills the room with a heaviness.

"I missed you."

She smiles against his chest, pressing her lips against his flesh and she wraps her arm around his waist to cling to him. It's the best way to tell him she has missed him too.

It is in these moments that he is most beautiful—when he is lying next to her, sated and still, and Molly has to cast away the fear that they will never be back here like this again. That one day he will turn away and he will be lost to her.

With each day that passes with her as his wife, her hopes grow that they can build a life beyond her imagination and outwith her fear.


End file.
